


love (and the many instances where it doesn't exist)

by FixerRefutation



Series: Ouma Kokichi's Theory of 'Happiness.' [13]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Trippy stuff, birthday fic, hap bday kirumi bby, not pregame, pregame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 10:37:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18776572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixerRefutation/pseuds/FixerRefutation
Summary: Looming over her, she had to faceNo matter what, she had to faceThere was nobody who loved ‘Kirumi Tojo’.





	love (and the many instances where it doesn't exist)

**Author's Note:**

> im dying  
> its her birthday i had to do something

 

It was maybe six-o-five in the morning when she woke up. The decor-less, peachy color of the walls and soft furniture pieces in the corner of the bedroom. It was maybe six-o-five that the call of faraway, authoritative voices called her to attention in the living room, in the incessant  _ tick-tick-ticking  _ of the clock in the very far left corner of her room. 

  
Kirumi Tojo rose from her bed like a lily reaching full height. Prose, grace, and of the utmost genteel. 

 

It was six-ten that she left the archway to her personally architectured room, pillars raised to the sky as if to touch it.

 

It was six-ten that she walked into the world of the rich.

 

It was six then, that she walked into the destruction of the rich and their petty, petty greed.

 

-

 

When the clock ticked to five, Kirumi closed her eyes and hummed a lullaby to the world. Soft, warm, and all the things the world was not. She gave them to the world. Offered up with the very core of her being, her all and everything, her expectations, her hopes, the selfishness long nurtured by the greed of riches and the pride of the prideless. Clothes soft-harsh, scratchy against milk-white skin-, fitted and to her size. Gloves affixed to hands, she steps out from the dark to the harsh blindness-the whiteness-of the living world. 

 

Kirumi danced like a dream. Posture straight, natural, movements perfected. 

 

It was five-thirty when the sun set.

 

It was five-thirty when the ache of the heels raised to its highest uncomfortability.

 

It was five, then, when she learned of the pain of society.

 

-

 

When it was four, Kirumi kicked off her heels, unlaced and freed. Books in hand, papers strewn and scattered to the winds. Thrown to the side were every nook and cranny of papers embellishing values of elegance, prose, coordination, balance. Tussled was the immaculate library. The maids would have a hard time cleaning up. What was that to matter? Who was she to matter? 

Kirumi closed her eyes. Footsteps draw near. Straightening up, stacking all the books neatly in a line, she lightly turns a page and pretends she still has heels on. 

 

At four, she wondered what it would be like to live a normal life. 

 

At four, she stood rigid in the searching gaze of her father as he scrutinized her book and scolded her on her abysmal grades, under an absolute a-plus.

 

At four, she wondered how it would be like to have a loving family.

 

-

 

Three, and Kirumi’s really wishing it wasn’t.  She’s picking at her lunch again today, on the top of a rooftop and swinging her legs over the sides. The keys jangle in her skirt pocket. The noises of the talking students fill her ringing ears with gruesome mumbles of death and execution permeate the air of the rooftop with a carefree atmosphere. A little boy-twelve, thirteen, at the most, is peeking up from nearby the rail. Thin, and mousy, with a purple tinge she had never seen before. He squeaks and stammers when she calls him out. She leaves him be from then on.

 

Kirumi will never quite understand people. They stare at her as she walks by, clasped hands over her lap, closed, narrow eyes with a cool gait.

 

At three, there was no competition of who was the queen. 

 

At three, she strode the halls with such precision it would’ve been thought that she was walking down the road to royalty.

 

Down the dirty asphalt road to royalty. 

 

-

  
  


At two, she’s finding it hard to breathe as she puts in her submission. Highschool is the same as always, as cold as always. No one Kirumi knows-that is, if she knows them-no one Kirumi knows is her friend. She works on everything alone, from dancing to learning to walking the halls of her own home. 

 

The little boy stares at her. One day, he kneels next to her on the rooftop, him at his feet and on his knees while she stands, towering, above him. Kirumi, the queen. 

 

At two, it’s so much harder to keep him at arm’s length when she sees him. His pain is so evident, desperate and miserable. It’s harder to find out how well they click in an instant. How she knows full well what she’s getting into and wholly ignoring it in favor of this boy. He’s sixteen, actually. Kokichi Ouma. 

 

With a bust of glee, she realizes that for once, she was wrong. 

 

At two, she waits by the mailbox. With luck, she won’t be going into a college.

 

-

 

At one, Kirumi knows she isn’t going to make it. 

 

-

 

At twelve, Kirumi sits in her bed. The gray expanse of the modern, fancy room greets her. The appearance of no one greets her. Ramen, laundry, chores all done in a flash. Burnt-up kitchen on courtesy of the supreme leader kept her from making food of the next day. Everyone had meals outside, then, besides a few people who were never around. When they were eating, at one point, she was asked about her interests, her talents, how she was so well-mannered and yet still a teenager. The many experiences she must’ve had, must’ve told them about--the matters of the world she knew better than most. Better than them. She wondered how they knew that. 

 

She stopped, and said, “I don’t know.” 

 

They stopped, stared, and continued their conversations.

 

At twelve, Kirumi sits in her bed. 

  
__ Looming over her, she had to face  
_ No matter what, she had to face  
_ __ There was nobody who loved ‘Kirumi Tojo’.

 

A ring. A knock. Two, three, gone. 

 

A door is opened.    
  


A misshapen cupcake with icing on the plate. A single, burning candle. Half-melted.

 

_ Happy Birthday, Mom. _

 

A gasp, muffled by a glove-which shifted into a smile and then a giggle, and then a laugh and here she is, smiling like an undignified idiot. “..Happy birthday to me.”

 

_ There is no one to love me. _

 

Kokichi appears, all smiles, as he drags in behind him a slew of plushies and a cup of tea.

 

_ There is no one to love her. _

 

Kirumi closes the door behind him, and they sit down as plushies are carefully arranged in a round table. 

 

_ There is no one that I love.  _

 

They sit and bicker and even roughhouse. Tojo’s never felt so  _ normal. _

 

_ But, at least for now, we can pretend that there is something to fight for.  _

**Author's Note:**

> im so sorry for never updating im just that dying and crying and miseyr soy bdvcj n


End file.
